


Missing Pieces

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Barebacking, Belts, Breathplay, Community: homebrewbingo, Dark, Dom/sub, Face-Fucking, Implied Underage, Leashes, M/M, Roughness, Smoking, Teasing, Topping from the Bottom, dark!Sam, robo!sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean knows that this is wrong, that Sam needs <i>help</i>, but Dean's needed Sam for so long and even this tiny, broken piece of him is enough for now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Missing Pieces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verucasalt123](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=verucasalt123).



> Happy birthday to my beloved verucasalt123, the best fandom-wifey a perv like me could ask for. <3
> 
> I'm using this for the "emotional themes" square on my homebrew bingo card.

 This isn't right.

 

Dean knows it, knows it in his heart and his gut and his soul, which, fuck, isn't that the fucking thing.

 

The belt slips that much tighter around his throat, buckle digging in just to the right of his windpipe. It's not so tight he's gonna pass out, but it makes each swallow feel like an effort, like each breath is just short of meeting its purpose.

 

“You'd just let me choke you to death, wouldn't you?” Sam, whatever's left of him, leans down to look right in Dean's face. One hand has the worn leather of his belt wrapped over his knuckles, so tight Dean can hear it creak as Sam flexes his fingers.

 

Sam's always had Dean's heart on a leash, but it's never been like this. Sam isn't … he isn't _right_. Everything about this is wrong, and not the good-wrong that Dean has missed so much, the make-sure-Dad-doesn't-hear wrong, the only-home-I-need-is-you wrong. Sam is _different_.

 

The bedside lamp is just bright enough to make Sam visible above him, knees stretched wide on the edge of the bed, and it's just dim enough to make the cigarette burning between his fingers glow magma-red every time Sam takes a pull off it.

 

Dean grew up in bars and truck stops and the kind of shit-holes that have smoke curling through the air even when they're empty. He's used to the smell of it, the way it clings to his hair and seeps into his pillow when he sleeps. He'd smoked his fair share of butts in his life, generally when they were offered to him between two home-manicured fingers by waitress/barkeep/stripper of the week.

 

After the first time his Dad had caught him smoking and smacked the shit out of him, Dean had always felt a curl of guilt filter into him along with the nicotine buzz. And he'd never let Sam smoke, not that he'd even tried. Not before. The good little soldier in Dean shies away from the smoke drifting through the air. _Dad told us not to..._

 

“I wouldn't do that, Dean.” Sam tugs the belt, fuck, may as well call it like it is, the leash around Dean's neck to bring him closer. The threadbare carpeting digs into his knees, gritty synthetic fibers grating against his skin as he inches himself closer to Sam, closer to whatever part of Sam is left for him.

 

Sam's lips taste different, like booze and smoke and a string of women spanning the country. Kissing Sam never felt like this, all of his shy sweetness erased for this nasty, bruising press of his tongue into Dean's mouth. He holds Dean there, curling his wrist to tighten the belt and steal Dean's breath. He can feel his heart speeding up, feel the hot flush of blood to his face as the edges of his vision start to blur.

 

“I'd never hurt you, Dean.” Sam whispers it against his lips, tip of his nose brushing against Dean's like it did when they were little, when they used to put their heads under the covers and give each other eskimo kisses and say things they couldn't say out in the light. “You're my brother.”

 

Dean gasps as Sam slips the belt back, loose enough to let him draw in a few shaking breaths. Sam holds the slack end in one hand and leans forward, elbow resting on his knee as he brings the cigarette to his lips. Dean watches it light up, carving out Sam's face into something familiar and frightening. Dean can breathe but he can't move, body trembling as Sam purses his lips and blows a line of smoke right into his face.

 

His eyes burn, tears springing up as he tries not to cough. Sam taps the ash onto the floor, a smile that stops just before his eyes playing over his face as he looks down at Dean. Dean feels himself burn hot with shame as Sam trails his eyes down Dean's body, letting his gaze linger on Dean's cock.

 

Dean is _hard_ , achingly, throbbingly, painfully hard, dick standing up at attention like the only good little soldier left in the room. He knows there's a slick pool of precome seeping into the filthy carpet, crappy motel AC blowing cold air over the wet head of his dick with every rattling gust from the wall unit.

 

He knows he'd come off like a shot if he could get a hand on himself, fuck, a few fingers up his ass would probably do the trick at this point. His balls feels heavy and hot, burning ache radiating out from his crotch to make his skin itch on the inside. Sam didn't say he couldn't, just like he didn't say Dean has to stay on the floor until he's given permission to get up. Doesn't make it any less true.

 

Sam takes another drag off his cigarette, tilting his neck to blow it out above Dean's head this time. He leaves it dangling from his mouth, burning ember bobbing up and down between his lips as he pulls his dick out of his boxers. He still has the belt wrapped over his hand, jerking Dean forward as he slides the elastic waistband down to cup under his balls.

 

Dean gave his first blowjob in the backseat of the Impala, Sam's zipper digging into his chin and his nose buried against Sam's Fruit of the Looms. They couldn't even wait to get Sam's pants off, not that they'd have had time anyway. Sam had alternately kept watch for their dad and thrown his head back like he was seeing god, skinny little hips jerking up into Dean's hands. Afterwards he'd just stared at Dean, stared and stared with his eyes so wide open Dean was worried he'd given him a stroke.

 

Sam's still staring at him, but, fuck, god, it's all wrong. He takes a lazy drag and puffs out a ring of smoke, tilting his head down at Dean.

 

“Come on.” Dean feels the buckle digging under his jaw as Sam pulls him in. “You know what to do.”

 

Of course he knows what to do, knows to take his time parting his lips and running his tongue over the slit of Sam's cock, sucking and spitting to get it nice and wet as he slides down. He flicks his tongue out to savor the taste of something that hasn't changed, salty precome Sammy taste the same as it ever was.

 

Dean knows exactly what to do, flexing his jaw open and arching his neck side to side as he rolls his tongue along the underside of Sam's cock. How many times had he thought about it, his own fucking fingers sucked in between his lips as he jerked off in the shower, muffling his own groans while Lisa cooked him breakfast or washed his clothes or did the million other wonderful things she did that could never make him truly happy.

 

He tries to focus on that, how much he's missed this, that Sam is back and he's here and he's sitting full and heavy on Dean's tongue. This is what makes him happy, what he'd prayed for, though perhaps god really had given up on him to send Sam back like this.

 

“You can do better than that,” Sam says sharply, tugging the belt tighter around his neck and pulling him roughly down. He takes another drag and aims it downwards, giving Dean a doubled set of tears in his eyes as he chokes on Sam's cock in his throat.

 

His air comes in snatches, half a breath here and there, vision blurring to gray until Sam pulls him off his dick to let him get a rasping pull of smoke-tinged air.

 

“Missed this, didn't you?” There's nothing left in Dean to resist, to deny it. He just nods as Sam smiles, tightening the leather spanning his hand and pulling Dean back onto his dick.

 

“What do you think, Dean?” Sam says, although Dean can barely hear it over the rush of blood in his ears as Sam draws in a deep pull of smoke and brings his hand to rest on Dean's head, cigarette burning between his fingers as he forces Dean as far down as he can go. “Should I come in your mouth, or should I come in your ass?”

 

Dean can't help the choking sounds he's making, air too thick to breathe anyways, but it's just too much, he can't be bothered to care that he's moaning like a fucking whore. God, fuck, yes, he needs it, needs Sam inside him, needs to feel it, needs to fucking come or he's gonna die. The “fuck me, please, Sammy,” gets lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth, turning into a jumble of desperate, choked-off syllables.

 

Instead of pulling him off the way Dean hopes, Sam drops the belt to get both hands gripped into Dean's hair. All Dean can do is hold on, body shaking every time Sam slams into his mouth, stars in front of his eyes. He can feel the belt slapping against his back, smoke and musk and his own spit in his nose as he takes his breath where he can get it. His dick is so hard is almost hurts, jutting against the creaking box spring every time Sam pulls him down.

 

And then it all stops, Sam's dick so far down his throat Dean can't even taste it when he comes, just feels the hot rush of it as he desperately tries to swallow. His throat is raw and screaming, burning as he tries to get all of Sam inside him, but there's just too much of it, or not enough of Dean, and he closes his eyes as he feels a hot line of Sam's spunk run down his chin.

 

The second time Dean gave Sam a hummer, they were in Tennessee, with two whole days alone in a motel room. Their dad barely had the key in the ignition before Dean had Sam pressed up against the door, buttons flying as they tried to get as much skin touching as possible and quickly abandoning that plan when Dean pressed his hand against Sam's skinny dick tenting his baggy jeans. Dean was on his knees in a second, swallowing Sam down with his hands on Sam's little hips and his eyes locked on his baby brother's.

 

When Sam came, he'd had a huge smile on his face, eyes all foxy and sharp, chanting Dean's name over and over like he couldn't believe Dean had done it _again_.

 

Dean dares to look up, hoping to see something that he knows isn't there. It's even worse when he looks.

 

“Oops,” Sam says, wide eyes sparkling vacant and gleeful as he leans down to lick his come off Dean's chin before he pats Dean on the cheek. “I'll get your ass next time.” He stubs his cigarette out on the carpet carelessly.

 

“Fuck, Sam...” Dean's voice sounds broken even to his own ears, hoarse and jagged as he slowly brings his hand to his cock, wet and shining with precome and some of his own errant spit. It fucking hurts, burning hard as he goes to finish himself off, fuck if he's gonna wait any longer, can't...

 

Sam's on him like a snake, snatching the belt off Dean's back and jerking it sharply, wrestling Dean around until his back is leaned against the foot of the bed. His knees ache as he stretches them out, rug burn hitting the air as his muscles bend and flex, blood flowing back in pins and needles.

 

“Wanna come, Dean?” Sam straddles his lap and circles his hips, his balls resting snugly against Dean's cock and jesus, fuck, he's gonna come just like this if Sam does that a couple more times.

 

Or not. He groans as Sam angles his hips up to reach around and grasp the base of Dean's dick and squeeze, thumb and forefinger pressing behind his balls and Dean might actually cry.

 

“Fuck, Sammy, come on,” Dean whines, whines like a little bitch if he cared to think about it. He doesn't. Instead he just ruts his hips up, not giving a flying fuck that his ass is digging into the nasty carpeting, he just needs friction, contact, something, anything.

 

“I didn't forget about you.” The careful look of concern on Sam's face is chilling. “See?” He takes one of Dean's hands and guides it down the curve of his ass, sliding it in between his cheeks where it's, fucking _christ_ , when the fuck did Sam find time to lube himself up? He must have done it in the bathroom before he even started and, jesus, fuck, it's so tight, two of Dean's admittedly thick fingers barely sinking into Sam, hot and slick.

 

Sam looms larger than life over him, squeezing viciously before he lets Dean's cock free. He scissors his fingers to guide Dean's cock until the head's just nudging against Sam's hole, enough pressure to make Dean quake. Dean might be topping in the most clinical sense of the word, but he's never felt so helpless, trapped under Sam and so desperate to come it makes his teeth grind together.

 

The first time Dean had fucked Sam, he'd spent an hour opening him up with his fingers and his mouth, so afraid he'd hurt him. It had gotten easier with years of practice, but Sam was always so fucking tight, and if Dean was being honest sometimes his favorite part was the prep time, watching Sam open up for him, let him in one bit at a time.

 

Sam is still tight, _too_ tight, settling himself onto the crown of Dean's cock when there's no fucking way he's ready. Dean wants to tell him to stop, stop it and what's wrong with you and what happened down there, but the look on Sam's face stops him dead and leaves him stock-still as Sam sinks down onto him.

 

It's a smile in name only, Sam's mouth tight and drawn, his eyes narrowed down to slits. He bottoms out in Dean's lap, so tight it staves off Dean's orgasm as he feels Sam grip him like a vise. Sam's arms wrap around his neck, snaking his fingers back through Dean's impromptu leash.

 

“Did you think about me while you were fucking Lisa?” Sam whispers in his ear, drawing himself off an inch and sinking back down to grind his hips in a tight circle. Sam's mouth is hot and wicked at his neck, nipping at him as he starts to move faster. Dean sits paralyzed under him, waves of hot pleasure and bone-chilling fear washing over him until he can't feel anything, or maybe it's everything all at once. Dean knows that this is wrong, that Sam needs _help_ , but Dean's needed Sam for so long and even this tiny, broken piece of him is enough for now.

 

“Did you?” The belt snaps in Sam's hand, jerking Dean's face up to look at him. Sam's face is gorgeous and empty and even if it's just a shell of himself, it's still _Sam._ His brother, his soul mate, take care of Sammy, two trips to hell and back just for this, bodies joined perfectly even if the only soul in the room is Dean's. Of course Dean thought about this, his missing piece caged and burning while he shuffled through the backyard barbecue apple pie life that left him emptier inside than Sam's vacant eyes staring down at him.

 

“Yes, god, yes,” Dean chokes out, Sam swimming in front of his eyes like a mirage as he loses the battle with his conscience and his consciousness. Something unspoken tells him it's ok to touch, hands stroking over Sam's back like he can soothe it all better. He buries his face in Sam's chest, perfect in all its many forms, from flat and skinny to the honey-tanned muscle beating hot against his skin.

 

Sam still smells like Sam, warm and spiced and rushing into his nose as Sam gives him enough slack to breathe. Dean wraps his arms as tight around his brother as he can get them, face smushed against him as he loses himself. He lets everything go and holds onto the only thing that matters, that Sam is here and he's alive and his heart is beating and everything else will be ok. There's always missing pieces, and Dean will find a way to fix this because he has to, because he'll do whatever it takes and everything he has to give has always been Sam's.

 

Sam's lips press hot against his, the sudden jerk of his head making Dean fall over the edge as Sam pries Dean's mouth open with his tongue, each one of them inside the other until Dean doesn't know who's broken and who's whole. The white-out rush blinds him as he tenses up under Sam and fills him up, “Love you, Sammy, love you,” mumbled unconsciously against Sam's lips.

 

They'll be alright. They always are. The how and the why doesn't matter, just that they're here.

 

The rush of oxygen when Sam slides the belt off his neck is jarring, his skin running hot-cold-hot and lighting up under Sam's fingers as Sam drags him up to the bed. Dean feels dizzy and spent, letting himself slip into sleep knowing that his doubt will still be waiting for him in the morning, that it'll all be ok as long as Sam's there with it.

 

Sam lights another cigarette and watches him as he drifts off, the fire lighting his face up as he leans back against the headboard.

 

“Love you, too, Dean.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr post here!](http://saltandbyrnefic.tumblr.com/post/135957008219/missing-pieces-dean-knows-that-this-is-wrong-that)


End file.
